


Slow

by e_wills



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: F/M, I'm not even sure where I was going with this TBH, Older Work, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 09:26:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16972005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/e_wills/pseuds/e_wills
Summary: This is an older NSFW oneshot I'm importing from Tumblr to save it from the Great Tumblr Purge.Hiccup and Astrid have different speeds of romance, but Astrid can learn to appreciate Hiccup's pace.





	Slow

Astrid had never been a patient person. Everything she did was a headlong charge meant to solve a problem and produce results. There was no accommodating anyone who wasted her time. The days were too short to entertain others’ stupidity. She was fast, deliberate, and purpose-driven: efficient and dependable, from her perspective. If she set out to accomplish something, if she took long strides with a determined pace. It was best to stay out of her way; an apology was not always offered.

It was baffling to her, then, how she had come to appreciate slowness. Not in all things...not even in most things—but in one, particular thing. There was one distinct facet of life where she had learned the virtue of leisurely, unhurried efforts. She had fought it, like she was apt to do. She argued, insisted even, that her way had to be better. 

But she had been proven wrong and it was, perhaps, the only time she was happy to admit it. 

She was involved with man most unlike herself. Hiccup was someone who had helped her see the world differently—opened doors to many truths she had been too bullheaded to notice. Three centuries of tradition could set people unyielding in their ways. Astrid had been no different until she cut loose the rusted old chackles of culture that had bound her, and turned her thoughts to the possibility of a shooting star: brilliant and wondrous, he was the kind of soul concerned with present, so unique and fleeting and might never again be repeated, except in a different time under different circumstances. Maybe.

In fact, the only time she ever gave any pause in life was to consider Hiccup Haddock; his wit, his tenacity, and all his idiosyncrasies—the ones that flattered him and the ones that did not. He had a way of getting her to stop, to listen, to think.

Hiccup and Astrid were two opposing forces, colliding and pushing one another into new and better things: a mutually beneficial equilibrium.

That was not to say that Hiccup was slow and purposeless by nature. He could flit about from one project to the next, scatterbrained, buzzing about the smithy like a hummingbird. Thoughts poured from him rapidly enough to stumble his speech. When it came to dragon riding, no one was faster or more daring. In most respects, he was as quick and driven as Astrid was, though markedly more unorganized and unorthodox in methodology.

Where two of them differed in speed, where he had surprised her, and where he had taught her how to seemingly stall time, was not at all something she would bring up in polite conversation...

There was a beauty in the way his hands roamed over her, in a steady burn that complimented the candlelight bathing them in gold and shadow. She used to squirm, grasping at his wrists to roughly direct them onto more pressing business. He had laughed, a soft and warm chuckle in her ear that made her hair stand on end. He resisted her demands like no one else would dare, and she let him. It was atypical, but so was the way he touched her. Every brush of his fingertips was significant, meaningful.

By contrast, Astrid tugged at him even still, like she would never learn. She pushed, pulled, and grasped rather pointedly. Hiccup never seemed to mind, but it did not make him move any faster. His exploration was a careful endeavor, needing to caress every bit of her before his hands were satisfied. Astrid would be left with impatient repetition—clutching a fistful of that gorgeous auburn hair or squeezing his shoulder in the hopes he might get on with it—but he would only smile fondly, with far more territory left for his fingers to discover.

Hiccup was intrigued by the way he could bring goosebumps to her skin with the lightest touch, or how a firm pressure, against the small of her back or ridge of her hip, could make her press into him like a cresting wave. The sensation of skin on skin was enough to strike passion in Astrid like sparks from flint. She wanted to make more flashes by desperate rubbing and friction; but Hiccup kept everything as a controlled fire, warm and comfortable in a hearth. He held her against his body, and the heat that radiated from them both was enough to make Astrid needy and delirious. Still, touching was prolonged, torturous and exquisite all the same. A thumb rolling over a nipple hardened it instantly, boasting of her arousal like it was not already obvious. His palm sweeping down her clenching stomach made her growl with frustration and an arch of her back.

So, he kissed her, tender and apologetic, while she grasped him roughly. Their tongues met with mutual eagerness, sharing moist breaths and soft moans. Astrid had never been to the exotic jungles of foreign lands, but she imagined they would not be nearly as sweltering. She could suffocate in the heat of their kiss, trying to gain dominance over her lover’s calm and skilled tongue. His lips, warm and tantalizing, wandered along her jaw, teased her ear, ghosted along her flushed neck with an occasional graze of his teeth.

It was all unhurried, an assault of languid sensuality. Her fingernails on his scalp, nor her hisses and empty threats, concerned him. Sweet kisses peppered her neck in direct contrast to her raging pulse; her pale skin breaking out into a thin sweat from restraint.

“Hiccup,” she breathed shakily.

He did not respond, mouth busy with the swell of her breasts, paying them careful attention like they were a newfound erogenous zone.

They were not.

“Hiccup!” she repeated firmly, glaring down at that familiar russet mop. “I swear to the gods!”

He chuckled, far too close to a nipple for her thighs not to clench. She felt the vibrations in her thundering heart.

“I’m not doing anything yet, milady,” he replied coyly.

“That’s exactly the problem!” 

There always came a point where the teasing ceased. Playful exploration became reverent steps to orgasm. Hiccup never rushed, even then, but he was merciful. Maybe her writhing and frustrated whining chipped away at his own restraint, or maybe he just wanted her to beg for a nice change of pace from her usual, bossy demeanor? Whatever the case, the tides turned when she admitted she wanted—no, needed him. When she got to that place where pride served no purpose and she handed over her vulnerabilities to him, he relented shortly thereafter. It was always impeccably timed, eliciting a startled gasp and shameless moan. His tongue flicked over a nipple, or the indistinguishable patterns drawn south of her navel were abandoned for that first ecstatic touch of his fingers to her sex.

His name became passionate sighs, no longer resentful growls.

Astrid never died suddenly, like she often claimed she might. She did not combust into a pile of ashes, waiting for her lover to give her what she wanted. It was clear in those moments that Hiccup knew her sexual appetites better than she did—what she really wanted, what she really could stand. In an instant, she cherished the torment she had cursed only second before, and she suspected he knew that as well. It had to be was the reason he always took his time, as much for her pleasure as it was for his own enjoyment.

Possibly, more so.

Her exasperated fidgeting became suddenly wanton, sweating glistening on her body. Her chest heaved and her hair was strewn about, blending into furs beneath them. Those fingers, his fingers, stroking, probing, sliding inside of her and out, parting folds and indulging in her slick arousal with indecent skill. How and where he had learn such intimate touches, from the tiny concentric circles against her epicenter, to the deep pulses that seemed to reach the very core of her whole being, was a mystery. The only thing Astrid was sure of was that Hiccup was incredible at strumming all the right cords, playing her body like a harp. He was confident but not smug, watching her twist and bend to the effort of his fingers.

Seconds. Minutes. An hour.

Things could continue that way for an indeterminate amount of time, like they never had anywhere to be, nor anything to do the following morning. Hiccup never pleasured her with any sort of urgency, like the night was endless and there was no real danger they might get caught.

In the back of her mind, Astrid was well aware of the risks and the consequences. It played into her sense of purpose and expediency. She wanted him and he wanted her, but repercussions for such behavior were severe. So, they needed to get to it. Knock it out. Scratch the itch. Mission accomplished.

Hiccup did not see it that way, taking the time to make every minute count as long as those private minutes were theirs to enjoy. Any resistance she occasionally threw at him was countered by those hands and that tongue, and the mind-blowing technique with which he used them.

He was too good and too relaxed, content to lie beside her for however long it took, kissing her neck and her forehead. His left hand remained occupied elsewhere.

“Hiccup,” she whimpered, hips lifting off the furs to seek every last inch of his fingers.

She pushed toward them, grinding onto his hand with no thought to her usual decorum. Without a need to rush, her hard edges softened into putty, easy malleable according to Hiccup’s grander plan.

There was no shame when they were together. Astrid was not worried with maintaining a certain reputation of toughness. She could be pleading and lustful, shedding all pretense of an immaculately put together shieldmaiden of the strictest discipline. Hiccup was safe. He would keep her secrets, holding them confidence with a sense of pride that he was the reason for all of it—her passions, unfolding like her slender legs at the feather-light touch of his lips to her thighs.

He ghosted his mouth over her smooth, pale skin. Every muscle fiber in her trembled, as much with desire as with almost unbearable anticipation. Her heart was going wild in her chest, frantic and too eager. Her breaths were short gasps, her abdomen knotting with each desperate little burst. 'Hurry', she wanted to say; but it would have been like shouting into the wind for all the good it would have done.

Instead, her voice was small and pleading enough that it would have been embarrassing with anyone else.

“Please, babe. Please!”

“Hm,” was the vague response, coupled with a soft kiss to the crease of her hip.

Those captivating eyes glanced up at her over her nest of dark curls, and they would have taken her breath away had she any left. They were so piercingly green that Astrid had, on more than one occasion, gotten lost in them, pondering their shades and depth until a call of her name brought her reeling out of her daydreams. But her mind was not wandering then, not while Hiccup’s slow and steady exhale further warmed the already heated wetness between her legs.

She cried out as he devoured her—long, slow drags of his tongue alternating with indulgent sucking, his fingers playing with her all the while, searching all of her mysteries. His eyes fluttered closed and he moaned, like she was some kind of delicacy, rare and heady, like the perfect wine. He always took the time to savor her as such.

His other hand caressed a thigh, holding her steady as her upper body arched and rolled against the furs, tickled by the individual hairs brushing along her spine, rubbing against her shoulder blades. She grasped it tightly while her other hand raked through his rich auburn hair.

Astrid had no idea how long it continued, because time had ceased to be of any consequence. Intimacy had its own flow, its own concept of hours. She could have been at his mercy until the sun rose, being eaten out with maddening calm. Her whole being seemed to melt, pooling between her thighs to the point she could not differentiate between her own slickness and her lover’s efforts. She felt it dripping from her, coxed by those talented hands.

Hiccup was content to stay where he was, lost in his task with fondness. Occasionally, he would glance up at her again—maybe more often than that, though Astrid’s eyes were tightly scrunched—he was mindful of her and not busy deriving whatever bizarre pleasure he got from flicking his tongue over her sex. He had to enjoy the way she tasted, abundantly wet for him. He must have entertained himself with the sounds she made, primal and bordering involuntary, singing his praises. It was like some great personal challenge to make her toes curl and her body shake; and Astrid caught a hint of his satisfied grin when her hands shot up to the headboard.

Her palms pressed against the wood, making it creak, shunting away some of the intensity that was nearly too much to stand. She could not contain it, unraveling in a sweaty, disheveled bundle of yelps and barely intelligible speech.

“Hicc—ahh! Haa! Ahh! Nnnhhnn!”

She muffled her cry in her arm, lest she wake the dead—at the very least, the snoozing Chief of Berk below them. Every cell in her body oscillated with release, an ecstatic burst, which tore through every muscle and nerve fiber. It was as if she exploded and compact, simultaneously in and outside of herself, hyper-aware and lost in a white, rapturous nothing, experiencing every minute sensation while being totally numb to everything. Her lithe frame convulsed with pleasure and she groped for Hiccup instinctively. There was no thought involved. She was raw desire, wanting her lover to melt into her so they could reach a higher existence.

But Hiccup just lapped at her slowly, extending her delight, drawing as many shudders from her as he could, wanting her to feel every deliberate brush of his tongue. His fingers never stopped either, probing and twisting to the same unhurried rhythm that broke her. He was not finish until she was spent, tugging at him weakly. It was more a hope and a suggestion than a demand.

Through her half-lidded eyes, she saw him smile with a hint of deviousness. Traces of her orgasm lingered on his chin, but that was not what most captured her attention.

He crawled up her body with an enticing grace and fluidity he seldom displayed off of his dragon. Astrid’s heart skipped, just like it did every time Hiccup looked at her like that. His shoulders rippled, toned by hours of daring flights and blacksmithing. He was gorgeous and he still did not know; so he could not understand why Astrid had to touch him back. It was bliss to run her hands over his back—up his spine and over his shoulder blades, mapping the topography of his muscles before wandering down to massage the dimples above his hips. He could not see the way his own eyes darkened with lust, or the way candlelight played off his skin, accentuating the body adulthood had blessed him with. He did not appreciate the handsome angles of his face or way his stubble scratched against her cheek, making her bite her lip.

All he knew was that she had come for him, and she still wanted him. She would show him just how much.

He hissed, pressing his forehead to hers, and she reached between their bodies, following his tight abdomen down to where his cock stood hard and needy. Her palm rubbed over the head, and she felt smug at the moisture she felt there. The taste of her sex was still potent on Hiccup’s tongue as they kissed deeply. No urgency. No desperation. Just pure love and enjoyment of one another—but Astrid fully intended to return the pleasure she had so generously and patiently been given.

Her fingers fluttered along Hiccup’s shaft, retracting the foreskin, before curling around him in a firm grip. She stroked him, every inch. Slowly.

“Do you want me?” she teased, lips gliding over his.

Hiccup gave a shaky laugh and his cock throbbed in her hand. “You already know the answer to that question.”

“Tell me." Her love bite made him moan.

“Yes,” he replied, fondling her breasts. Astrid sighed and arched into his touch. He added breathlessly, “I want you. I’ve only ever wanted you.”

Astrid’s arms came around him, pulling him flush against her. It was an incredible feeling, warm and complete, as their hearts beat in tandem.

“Then have me,” she said, staring up into that brilliant shade of green.

There was nothing sweeter, more perfect, than the moment he buried himself in her—the way her body gave, the way he instantly forgot about everything else, eyes closed and mouth open in a silent moan that Astrid could feel in the rapid release of tension from his muscles—the only thing that had been quick up to that point.

Astrid loved watching the subtle changes in Hiccup’s face as he made love to her—the knitting of his eyebrows, the clenching and unclenching of his jaw, the way everything slackened when he hit those wonderful angles. Grunts, moan, sighs, and gasps made it all the more erotic; and Astrid basked in it: her lover’s pleasure sought and found in no other woman but her. She delighted in being beneath him, golden hair fanned out all around her; though any position worked, really. But, as he moved over her, his chest slid over her breasts, rubbing against her nipples in the most tantalizing way. Her hands were splayed against his back, feeling the controlled power in every thrust, every mind-blowing roll of his hips. She wrapped her legs around him, locking her ankles guiding him closer, urging him deeper. Admittedly, it was appealing and masculine the way he braced himself with a fist almost white-knuckle in the furs beside her head as his other arm encircled her in a possessive hold.

She was his of her own free will. She was not going anywhere. She loved him too much; and she was addicted to his relaxed, yet no less ardent desires.

Hiccup could make the conscious effort to speed things up, to move more frantically, and chase that climax when the moment presented itself—when Astrid had been satisfied, and only then. He did so as the coil inside him tightened. Far less important to him was prolonging his own pleasure. During sex, he never considered himself the priority. That deliciously languid rhythm he stubbornly maintained when attending to Astrid’s needs gradually escalated. He went harder, faster; and it was then Astrid actually wished for the slower pace, to give him more, to hold on to just one more minute of her lover as no one else ever saw him. 

But he was beautiful then too, when he came.

His breathing was ragged and his hips bucked forward beyond his control. He called out her name and she luxuriated in the sound. It echoed in her heart, resounding in every corner, filling her with pride and affection. His moan was low, from a place past rational thought—a place he needed to visit more often. The way he threw back his head filled Astrid with an unspoken joy. She wanted to sear the image into her brain, but all too soon afterward she would forget the look of that handsome face overcome with ecstasy.

So, she tried to take it all in: the sweat, the love, the glow, and the heat. It was like trying to keep water in her hands, trickling away by the second as the silence and calm of the night settled over them. It was hard to forever capture precious, fleeting moments, like tender kisses tracing her hairline and sweet nothings murmured amidst steadying breaths and twining fingers.

How was she to hold on to memories with the same vividness? How was she to ward off that eventual fade of time that rendered cherished moments fuzzy? There was the herbal tea to ward of any accidents, and the prospect of finding her way into Hiccup’s bed again and again until every detail was forever clear and unable to diminish. But life moved too fast. The nights seemingly over shortly after they begun, no matter how much time stood still in throes of passion. It seemed to speed up again somewhere between the “I love you” and the break of dawn.

Astrid pondered the possibilities as her eyelids grew heavy, lulled into sleep by her lover’s steady breathing. Someday she would figure it out—the secret to painting the enduring mental picture that could stand up to the too quick passage of time.

Until then, however, she supposed it wouldn't kill her to ask Hiccup to go slower.

**Author's Note:**

> Older work imported to save it from Tumblr. If you comment, please be kind. I have grown.


End file.
